ON 'PURPOSE'

What makes me write something? Trying to hit it straight and not talk in circles, I’d say that I take things in hand just to prove a point to my most ardent follower, probably the only one who’s involved enough to like what I’ve got to say and hate me for every piece of bullshit (although that’s not happened often) thrown his way, and I know I’m kind of getting obvious, enough to have lost the bang this ought to have produced, but won’t now: Myself. I guess that’s primary, I don’t see myself as being a pacifier for someone other than me, and when it concerns my interests towards myself, I see myself as nothing more than precisely that: Someone who tries to get a good name, only that what’s required is not a commonplace kiss-up act, but rather a show of quality that would be appreciated if genuine, even if pathetic. Coming to think about it, I don’t think ‘pathetic’ has much to do over here.

Writing for writing’s sake, and to rid oneself of the itch, tell you what: These sound so good. So tidy, so convenient. Easy to hide behind, big blankets despite being sickeningly thin, not going to help you bear a chill, let alone anything more adverse. And this doesn’t mean I’m going to scoff at everyone who claims otherwise, I’ve kind of taken this stand where I swore to myself that I won’t get beyond a ‘personal level’ and that means I wouldn’t claim to anything about anyone more than a majestically tiny fraction of whatever I claim to know about myself, so I just try to maintain a little diplomacy here and tell the world that at least ‘I’, the insensitive writer, cannot look at any benefit that’s not material, and that’s not an implication that I won’t work for anything less than a hefty stack of green, it’s just that I need to feel something add up someplace inside me to be able to bring out whatever it dislocated, and pushed out. And yeah, I’m just trying to be awfully metaphorical here, and what I essentially intended to say is this: If I try to write about a girl, or something that she’s doing to me, (from a considerable distance, so don’t make me prove you wrong) it’s never going to be just for the sake of letting it out, you know, never for ‘scratching where it itches’ or trying to find the heart of it. I guess I’ll always want my work read by that designated girl, and appreciated by her (which she would, if in case she read) and produce sufficiently constructive outcomes. And yeah, I sure can dream, I’m someone who wrote a lyric about it.

“And one day,

I’m gonna find you beneath this cloud,

while above I’ve got myself, sorted out,

and when I do:

I’ll forget about how

I used to be so vain,

assigning you to all halls of fame;

and I would surely laugh all night,

‘cause I’ve had this thing called ‘second sight’…”

And a purpose might not always be obligatory towards the receiver, I don’t always need to hail people or things and wish they could read it so that they’d appreciate the interest I show, no, it’s not like that. Sure, I’d want the one behind my words to know she’s caused it; one or ‘ones’, you know, it’s often not just a single beneficiary, and even if my opinion on her or on the whole fraternity is derogatory, that’s most certainly not my stand about her or the lot, that’s just what I thought was absolutely right at that point of time, and maybe I find it right even now, or maybe I don’t and all I’m going to do is have a laugh with her (or them) at how ridiculous I had sounded a while before. Truth is, I don’t know what I’d do, because I’ve not been there before, and she’s not taken me there before, and I know, I’m just trading blames with nothing here, and anyway, my point is: I write stuff because I want them read, and I won’t write about a flower or a dog because it won’t read it for sure, while a girl ‘might’. Or so I like to think.